I reach the crest of the ridge. The compound sits in the belly of a deep arroyo below, illuminated by the harsh, artificial glare of high-sodium floodlights. It isn't a house.
It's a fortress.
Twelve-foot concrete walls reinforced with rebar, topped with thick, overlapping coils of razor wire. The low, mechanical hum of diesel generators bleeds into the quiet night.
A heavy iron gate blocks the single access road.
I slide down the embankment, the loose shale biting into my boots.
Forty-six pistol rounds, twelve sniper rounds, and a knife. It isn't enough to clear a fortress, but I don't need to survive. I just need to reach the man pulling the strings. I just need to put a bullet between the broker's eyes so Addy never has to look over her shoulder again.
I'm not leaving.
The promise echoes in the quiet of my mind, sharp and accusatory.
I broke it.
I walked out of that motel room while she slept, leaving her with the only man I trust to keep her breathing. Frost will protect her.
He'll put her in a cage, but she'll live.
I push the thought away. Emotion gets you killed. Hesitation gets you killed.
I sink into the absolute, frigid calm of the predator.
I unsling the sniper rifle, dropping to my stomach on the cold shale. I sight down the thermal scope, sweeping the perimeter.
Two sentries patrol the eastern wall, walking a slow, intersecting route along the packed dirt. They are heavily armed, carrying compact submachine guns and wearing heavy tactical vests.
Taking them from the ridge is a tactical error. Even a suppressed heavy-caliber rifle echoes in a rock canyon. If they drop now, the bodies will be found on the next patrol rotation, locking the compound down before the twelve-foot wall can be cleared.
This has to be done up close.
The rifle settles across my back as I slide down the embankment. The tree line offers heavy cover fifty yards from the eastern perimeter.
I draw the combat knife. The blackened steel absorbs the moonlight, dull and lethal.
Their pacing is strictly regimented. Five minutes per circuit. They meet at the corner, exchange a few words, and separate.
I wait until the nearest sentry turns his back, his heavy boots crunching rhythmically on the gravel.
That's my window.
Instead of running, I glide. Keeping my center of gravity low allows the deep shadows of the concrete wall to swallow me. The base of the barrier rises up just as the sentry completes his turn and starts walking back.
Spine pressed against the cold concrete, I control my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Silent.
The sentry approaches. Four yards. Three yards. Two yards.
He pauses, digging into the pocket of his tactical vest for a lighter. The sharp scratch of the flint is the only warning he gets.
I step out of the shadows.
I clamp my left hand over his mouth, violently jerking his head back, and drive the combat knife up directly under the edge of his jaw. The blackened steel shears through the soft tissue,bypassing the heavy plate carrier and severing the brain stem instantly.
He goes completely rigid. No scream. No struggle. The nervous system simply shuts down.
Catching his dead weight prevents him from hitting the ground. The deepest pool of shadow at the base of the wall hides the body.
